


Samba ... de Janeiro!

by scatterglory



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Brazil, Carnaval, Crack, Crossdressing, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatterglory/pseuds/scatterglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted for the KMM prompt <a href="http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/23407.html?thread=22956911#t22956911"> Merlin is one of those Rio de Janeiro dancers, with feathers and lively costumes... Arthur is a fascinated tourist. </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Samba ... de Janeiro!

**Author's Note:**

> ***Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-love; I make no profit, and claim no ownership.***
> 
> Beta credit and adulation goes to blue_eyed_1987; any remaining issues are 100% my fault. :)
> 
> Here's a little bit of info about samba & Carnaval: [ Brazilian Carnaval – Rio de Janeiro](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3mYDwRTALo). … I have no idea how they made samba sound so boring, but … :P
> 
> [ This is a bit better (esp. at 0:27). ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_uDZ9PYKpM&NR=1)
> 
> Guys don't traditionally wear the outfits or do the crazy hip stuff, so I claim artistic license. If you can't access the videos, all you need to know is that Carnaval in Rio makes Mardi Gras in New Orleans (or pretty much any other outdoor festival/party) look like a five-year-old's birthday party.
> 
> Title is from [“Bellini - Samba De Janeiro.”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mClWp2O_2_M)
> 
> Lastly, I’m neither Brazilian nor British, and apologize in advance to any readers who are.

The syncopated, driving beat of the drum pulses through the crowd as men, women and children gyrate and sway, sing and laugh, eat and drink, touch and kiss around him. Arthur doesn't know where to look—feathers and sequins surround him as the samba dancers parade by, smiling and flirting and offering prayers as they process through the wild, ecstatic streets of Rio. It's the first night of Carnaval; Arthur's been in Brazil for less than two hours, and he already feels like his cold, dreary life in London is a distant memory.

Morgana grabs his arm and pulls him through the crowd as Uther forges on ahead towards their hotel with Catrina in tow, earning a few dark looks and angry words muttered in Portuguese. Arthur trails after Morgana, overwhelmed and overstimulated. The _life,_ the _energy_ of the people around him—he's never seen anything like it, as though the entire mass of humanity is channelling the collective power of the universe itself. He dimly recalls Morgana explaining the origins of Carnaval during the flight—something to do with Catholicism, but mixed with an African religion that sounded like “candle”—but he can't focus long enough to remember. Greeted with a ridiculously strong, mintless mojito-type drink called a _caipirinha_ as soon as he got off the plane, and going on three hours of sleep in the past twenty, he can barely remember his own _name._

The trip to Rio had been Uther's idea— Catrina, his current trophy girlfriend, had expressed the desire to get away from the abysmal winter they'd been having, and Uther had booked their flights to Brazil without a second thought. Arthur doesn't think his father actually had any idea about what they were in for—if the scowl on Uther's face is any indication, this was _not_ the tropical get-away he'd had in mind. As far as Arthur’s concerned, however, this is brilliant—his father had insisted that both he and Morgana come along, and Arthur was more than willing to take an all-expenses-paid holiday to one of the biggest parties in the world during his otherwise mundane gap year.

As he’s congratulating himself on his good fortune, the crowd swells around them ... and Morgana’s hand is gone! She disappears into the writhing mass of bodies, and suddenly the chaos is oppressive rather than exciting—he can’t breathe, can’t see a way out, has no idea how to get to their hotel—

He casts around in panic, looking for a way out of the crowd, for higher ground or a doorway or _somewhere_ not filled with sweat and heat and thousands of people, but he can’t see anything—

And then the crowd parts, and he stumbles forward … right into the path of the parade. Blinking in confusion, he tries to retreat back into the safe anonymity of the crowd, but hands on his back are shoving him forward, and tall women in feathered bikinis are dancing around him, laughing and pushing him towards a float.

Which is _absolutely not a good thing._ He can’t dance, he has no idea what they’re saying, he _really, really can’t do this_ … Getting desperate, he shakes off the insistent hands of the dancers, and almost makes it back to the crowd, when someone catches him by the elbow and swings him around forcefully. He stumbles again, but is caught by strong, bare arms and spun back towards the float. Then the hands are pressing down on his shoulders, and he falls to his knees—

Bringing him eye-level with smooth, naked buttocks that are _in no way_ concealed by a green-and-yellow feathered thong. He feels his face burning, but he can’t look away—the hips are shaking and twisting _right there,_ and his pants are too tight and it’s too hot in this fucking country, and dammit, he doesn’t even _like_ girls …

And then the dancer turns to face him, and, okay, _not a girl._ The thong that the _most definitely male_ dancer is wearing leaves almost _nothing_ to the imagination, and Arthur’s mouth goes dry. He tears his eyes away and looks up in panic, only to be transfixed by a pair of sparkling blue eyes in a pale, exquisite face. The boy beams down at him, singing along to the music, as comfortable in the headdress and heels as any of the female dancers, and Arthur’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. He knows his mouth is hanging open, but he doesn’t care. The boy’s smile widens, and he reaches his hands down to Arthur.

Without conscious thought, Arthur takes the boy’s hands and finds himself being pulled to his feet. The boy is several inches taller than he is, due to those physics-defying shoes, but he's slim and lithe and Arthur can hardly breathe with desire. The boy takes his wrists and pulls him forward until they’re chest to chest, and Arthur feels the blood drain from his face and head south for the winter. The boy grins cheekily at him—not letting go of Arthur’s wrists, he turns in Arthur’s arms and bends over slightly, pressing his arse against Arthur’s groin and crossing Arthur’s wrists in front of his chest. Arthur lets out a strangled gasp as he's pulled forward, practically on top of the boy—the boy’s hips grind against him, moving impossibly fast, and shit, he’s going to come in his pants, right here in front of all these people …

As if reading his mind, the boy twists out of his arms and pulls him backwards and up onto the float. Still dancing, the boy leads Arthur in between the backdrop and a stand of cardboard trees—it’s hardly private, but no one seems to care—and then he’s kissing Arthur, shoving his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur moans into the kiss and grabs the boy’s bare arse in both hands; the boy lets out a pleased gasp and wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck, and they’re just standing there, thrusting into each other, when the song ends and the crowd cheers.

The boy nips at his lower lip, then pulls away, mischief dancing in his eyes. _“Venha conmigo,”_ he breathes, low and sultry, into Arthur’s ear, and Arthur doesn’t need to speak a word of Portuguese to know exactly where _this_ is headed. Taking his wide-eyed stare for agreement, the boy takes his hand and pulls him off the float and through the crowd. The crowd parts like water before the boy’s feathered glory, with more than a few envious glances levelled at Arthur, and Arthur can’t believe this is happening to _him._

They don’t go very far, just off of the main street, and the boy ducks into a shadowed alcove and pushes Arthur back against the cool brick wall. Then he’s in Arthur’s arms again, pressing his nearly-naked body all along Arthur’s front, teasing Arthur’s earlobe with his sharp teeth.

 _“Os blocos RJ, para os solteiros, são um lugar para conhecer e até_ beijar _pessoas,”_ he laughs into Arthur’s ear.

“I—I don’t speak—ah!” Arthur’s attempt to communicate is cut off as the boy’s hand finds his groin and squeezes boldly.

The boy laughs again. “I said,” he murmurs, his accent thick in Arthur’s ear, “The _blocos_ in Rio de Janeiro, for singles, are places to meet and even _kiss_ people." Then he’s grinning wickedly and licking into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur barely even registers that the boy answered him in English. He loses himself in the boy’s mouth as the boy rubs against him to the omnipresent beat of the drums.

The boy’s hands flutter at his waist band, and he mouths along Arthur’s jaw. _“Eu quero beijar você aqui,”_ he whispers, sucking the soft skin right below Arthur’s ear.

 _“E também aqui.”_ He noses down Arthur’s neck and nips at the hollow of his collarbone.

 _“Eu quero cobrir seu corpo com beijinhos,”_ he moans, pushing Arthur’s shirt up and licking his way down Arthur’s chest. He thrusts his tongue into Arthur’s bellybutton and Arthur’s hips jerk up of their own accord. The boy laughs softly into the curve of Arthur’s hip, and undoes his fly with long, skillful fingers.

 _“Eu quero provar cada parte de você,”_ his whispers, his mouth hot and wet against Arthur’s prick as he frees it from Arthur’s boxers. Arthur moans as the boy takes him into his mouth, and tangles his fingers in the boy’s dark, soft hair. The boy’s headdress has slipped back, hanging down his back like a peacock’s tail, feathers rustling as the boy sucks Arthur down. Arthur watches wide-eyed, breath hissing raggedly out from his parted lips, as the boy looks up at him from below his lowered eyelashes, swirling his tongue over Arthur’s head before sucking until his cheekbones stand out sharp in his alabaster skin. The sight of him, beautiful and perfect at Arthur’s feet, is too much—Arthur comes with embarrassing speed, spilling into the boy’s eager mouth with a strangled cry, knees buckling as the boy sucks him through his orgasm before surging up and capturing his mouth. Arthur tastes himself on the boy’s tongue and palms the boy’s crotch blindly, cupping the boy’s arousal and fully intending to return the favour—

But the boy dances away from him, laughing. _“É melhor assim, me faz parecer mais impressionante quando eu danço,”_ he says, before darting back in for another kiss.

 _“Bem-vindo ao Brasil,”_ he breathes into Arthur’s mouth. Then he’s gone, melting back into the crowd in a blur of feathers and skin, leaving Arthur dazed and alone in the backstreets of Rio.

* * *

Somehow—thank whatever deity is actually presiding over this madness—he makes it to the hotel alive and relatively unscathed. Morgana yells at him—“Do you have any idea how frightened we were? You could have been lying dead in a ditch!”—and his father is livid in his silent, terrifying way, but Arthur’s still vibrating from the energy pulsing through every atom of his being, and he barely manages to fake contrition before collapsing in his own room.

When he wakes shortly after noon the next day and stumbles down to the hotel dining area in search of breakfast, his father summons him over to where he and a strange woman are sitting.

“Arthur, this is Hunith Emrys, the owner of this fine hotel.” His father’s tone is stiff and formal, but the woman’s eyes are kind. Arthur shakes her hand politely and murmurs his hello.

“I was just telling your father how wonderful it is to have a fellow Englishman staying here,” she says with a smile as he seats himself, her accent unmistakable.

His surprise must show on his face, because his father loosens up enough to offer him a small, smug smile. “I was naturally inclined to seek out a hotel that would understand the _proper_ way of doing things,” he says, managing to be both irritatingly vague and potentially offensive at the same time. Arthur winces internally, but Ms. Emrys just chuckles.

“I do hope you find your stay comfortable,” she says warmly. “It’s our busiest time of year, but we keep the same high standards of service regardless.”

The smile Uther offers her is significantly warmer than his usual. “Ms. Emrys is from London as well,” he says.

“Oh, do call me Hunith,” Ms. Emrys puts in. “Ms. Emrys makes me feel ancient … although I suppose I must be, with a mostly grown son!” She and Uther both laugh.

“Ms—Hunith, pardon me, Hunith’s son, Merlin, will be attending Cambridge with you in the autumn,” Uther says.

“Really?” Arthur feigns polite interest, but he can smell tea— _real_ English breakfast tea—and thus nearly misses what his father says next.

“… so it would be more than appropriate for you to meet the boy and offer whatever help you can when he arrives, wouldn’t you agree, Arthur?”

“Er,” Arthur says, still focused on the thought of tea, “I … suppose?”

“He should be back any minute now,” Hunith says. “He was in the parade yesterday, on his samba school’s float. They’re the first school to allow lads to dance the girl’s part, and Merlin’s been practicing very hard,” she says with pride. “It’s a wonderful age we live in.”

“Arthur’s gay, as well,” his father puts in blandly, and Arthur stops thinking of tea long enough to boggle—his father has never exactly given Arthur _trouble_ over his sexual orientation, but neither has he officially _condoned_ it, much less _brought it up in public …_

Hunith smiles. “Wonderful! It will be good for Merlin to have friends like him at university. He’s not been back to England since he was a baby. We moved here to be with his father—for all the good that did us, I should have known better than to marry a _capoeirista_ …”

Arthur’s still rather stuck on the fact that his father apparently considers his sexuality an appropriate topic of conversation to broach with almost a complete stranger, when Hunith looks over his shoulder.

“Ah! Merlin!” she calls out. _“Venha aqui, filho!”_

 _“Sim, mãe?”_

This time, the voice isn’t low, or sultry, but it goes straight to Arthur’s cock nonetheless. Disbelieving, because really, there's _no way_ he could be so lucky, he spins in his chair—

The boy from last night is standing behind him, still wearing nothing more than what he wore for the parade, with dark circles under his eyes that somehow only manage to emphasize how blue they are. His mouth breaks into a slow, intimate smile as his eyes meet Arthur’s.

Hunith makes an amused noise. “You were out all night? Of course you were. Ah, to be so young again. Merlin, this is Uther Pendragon, and his son Arthur—Arthur will be starting with you at Cambridge, and he’s agreed to show you around when you get there. Mr. Pendragon, Arthur, this is my son, Merlin.”

The boy’s—Merlin’s—smile widens. “It's a ... _pleasure_ ... to meet you,” he says, his accent thick and warm in Arthur’s ears. His eyes flicker up and down Arthur’s body. “Maybe after I sleep a little, I can show you some of Rio?”

Uther makes an approving noise. “A wonderful idea.” He stands, and shakes both Hunith and Merlin’s hands, before excusing himself to go check on Catrina and Morgana.

Hunith excuses herself as well, and Arthur and Merlin are left alone, staring at each other. Arthur feels a blush rising in his cheeks as Merlin smirks at him. His heart is pounding, and there’s a ringing in his ears—he swears he can hear the music from last night, swirling around them, soft at first but getting louder as Merlin extends his hand.

“Or I can show you some of … Rio … now, before I sleep?” His tone is teasing and playful, and Arthur can only grin, and nod, and follow him out of the dining room, and into the rest of what’s definitely going to be the best holiday _ever._

 

 **O Fim**


End file.
